


The Adventure Of The Sussex Vampire (1901)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [194]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Framing Story, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Retirement, Sussex, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 21:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11723238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock's second 'vampire' case, in which someone bites off rather more than they can chew. And Watson finds heaven on the Sussex Downs.





	The Adventure Of The Sussex Vampire (1901)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



Summer came early, that year of nineteen hundred and one. Sherlock and I had just returned from another amazing technological experience, namely a visit to a cinematographic theatre where they had shown several short 'films'. Of course these had been around for some years – I still remembered (because someone would not let me forget!) that short clip of the train seeming to rush out of the screen which had ever so slightly unnerved me - but now they were several minutes long, rather than the earlier seconds-long efforts. Next thing we knew, they would have the things in people's front rooms, and with those blasted new 'telephones' that were appearing up and down the country, there would be an end to peace in an Englishman's home! I much preferred a good book, which reminded me – I had to cash the generous cheque that I had received from the “Strand” magazine for the Thor Bridge case, which had again received exceptionally warm reviews. My publishers were, for once, being allowed to publish it in book form almost immediately after, profits from the sales going to the rebuilding of Sherlock's orphanage. It felt wonderful to be so philanthropically rich.

There was a telegram waiting for us when we arrived home. Sherlock read it, then passed it over to me. I read it aloud:

“The owner of Dibley Hall wishes to avail himself of the services of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, concerning recent vampirical occurrences in the vicinity. An appointment has been scheduled for you both at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, the seventeenth. No reply is necessary.”

“A command”, Sherlock smiled.

“Presumptuous, I would say”, I remarked, shrugging off my summer coat. The hot spell had given rise to frequent squally showers, and I had no wish to be caught out in one. Sherlock, as usual, was in the same worn-out long coat that he wore in all weathers. Even on the way home, a richly-attired lady had given me a pitying look, clearly thinking that I was being charitable to some tramp whom I had just happened across in my travels. Then again, with Sherlock's hair....

“The presumption he makes is that we will be curious enough to attend to find out what he wants”, my friend said. He looked at me hopefully. “I do not suppose you thought.....”

“Mrs. Lindberg will be bringing coffee up in a few minutes”, I said with a smile. “I spoke to her before we left this evening.”

He smiled back at me, then went over to the bookcase.

“The telegram comes from the town of Robertsbridge, which is in Sussex”, he said, puling out a Bradshaw. “Let us see what we can glean on the subject.”

He read the book for a few moments before putting it down.

“Not much help”, he said. “One presumes that this missive must be from the new owner.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Bradshaw says that Dibley Hall, which lies some two miles from Robertsbridge, is in the possession of the Willenden family”, he said. “However, I happen to know that that is incorrect. Just before the late queen's passing, I remember reading in the _“Times”_ that Mr. Thomas Willenden had been ruined by the recent Boer War, which had resulted in the destruction of his African gold mine, and had had to sell his ancestral home. I wonder who bought it?”

“Are we going down tomorrow, then?” I asked.

“I am inclined to”, he said, looking across at me. “Do you not think that we should?”

I felt uneasy, and it took some little thought before I realized as to why.

“This fellow must know that you could find out their identity, given just a little time”, he said. “Yet he has chosen to call at such short notice that you do not have any. I do not like it.”

“If you are unsure, then I can decline and we can find out anyway”, he suggested.

I sighed, and shook my head.

“No, we will go”, I said. “But armed. And as it is a vampire, I will see if I have any silver bullets!”

Fortunately Mrs. Lindberg arrived with the coffee at that moment. It never ceased to amaze me how much of the stuff my friend got through. If he was ever the victim of a vampire attack, the poor creature would probably find itself imbibing as much coffee as blood, I was sure!

+~+~+

It was my bad luck that the railway line between Charing Cross and Robertsbridge passed through the town of Tonbridge, on whose station platforms I had so nearly lost my dear friend but a short time ago. I said nothing as the train waited an absurdly long time for no good reason, but Sherlock clearly knew the reason for my unease, and reached a reassuring hand across the compartment to take mine. I smiled at him.

We arrived at Robertsbridge Station at just after eleven o'clock, our train having been delayed by a minor landslip just outside Wadhurst, and took a cab the remaining two miles to the hall. The building turned out to be not as large as I had expected, merely being the largest house in Dibley village, set slightly apart from the other houses in its own copious gardens. Fortunately the large black iron gates were open, presumably in anticipation of our arrival, and our cabbie dropped us outside the front door and said he would be 'down the pub' when we were finished. I noticed with some alarm the speed at which his horse all but galloped away back down the road to the gate, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.

Sherlock knocked at the door, and a mournful-looking footman opened it almost at once. Having looked at us as if we were something the cat might have dragged in (though with Sherlock's appearance, that was not a totally unjustified belief), he sighed heavily and stood back to let us in. We found ourselves in a large entrance-hall, and he took our hats and coats before escorting us to the waiting-room (apparently we were not considered worthy enough for him to waste actual words on). I would have remarked on the matter to my friend, but he seemed particularly taken with the coat-stand that the footman had placed our items on, so I thought it best not to interrupt him. If he wished to commune with the local furniture, far be it from me to stop him.

Finally, the footman returned and led us to a small study into which we were ushered. He did not follow us in or even announce us, which again was odd.

“Gentlemen, please be seated.”

The voice came from a dark-haired man sat in one of the fireside chairs. He was stroking a large dog of indeterminate breed, and I immediately thought back to the late Growley, though this dog was larger if nothing like as ugly. The man himself was either heavily tanned or possibly of mixed birth; in the dim firelight it was hard to tell. As was his age; he could have been anything from twenty-five to forty. My friend sat in the chair opposite, and I stood behind him. The fact that I had a large solid object between myself and the hearth monster was just coincidence.

Sherlock just looked at me. I hated it when he did that!

“Thank you for coming”, our host said. “My name is Mr. Guy de Klerk, and I recently purchased this property. It was a thriving estate, complete with its own sawmill and other industries, but someone is attempting to destroy it. I have asked you here today to see if you would be prepared to investigate the matter for me.”

His accent was vaguely Dutch, I estimated, which might suggest that he was a Boer. That, with the recent end of the Boer War, would not go down well in England at this time. The might of the British Empire had been surprisingly tested by the little Dutch republics of Transvaal and the Orange Free State, and matters had not been helped by the fact that the British reasons for the war had been vengeance and greed, coupled with fears that the republics might combine and/or obtain a sea outlet, and become a major regional power that would frustrate the on-off dream of a British-dominated Cape-Cairo axis across the Dark Continent. Kaiser Wilhelm's support for them had also raised hackles in London, as if Anglo-German relations needed any worsening. I could imagine that someone like Mr. de Klerk might not be well received, especially as an incomer in a country area like this.

“I shall consider it”, Sherlock said. “Please tell me what has happened. _All_ the details, if you please.”

I looked at him in surprise. There seemed to be an implication that he might be expecting our potential client to either lie or withhold information. People did do that, but I did not see any reason for such an assumption as of yet.

“As you may know”, our host began, “I purchased this house from the previous owner, Mr. Thomas Willenden. His family have been in Sussex since the Norman Conquest, and have lived in the Hall since the time of the great Elizabeth. However, he had invested heavily in one mine in particular that was destroyed in the war between my people and his. I call them my people, although I have lived in England for the past five years, managing my investments at a distance. It is the opinion of the local people that I somehow inveigled Mr. Willenden into the financial disaster that befell him, though his investment decisions were all his own. Because of that, I understand that they refer to me as 'The Sussex Vampire'.”

“Hence the vampiric reference”, Sherlock said, “Please continue.”

“It is not just that”, he said. “There have been two instances of people being attacked and robbed in the area. In both cases, the victims were rendered unconscious with an attack from behind, and in both cases, bite marks were found on their bodies afterwards. Both survived.”

“Surely the locals cannot think you have turned to vampirism?” I objected. He turned to me.

“Doctor”, he said heavily, “both cases occurred whilst I was away from the house. I rarely leave it, so people naturally think it more than co-incidental that I was out on both days. Unfortunately at both times I was walking back from the station, so I did not have an alibi.”

“You walk from the station?” I asked, surprised. It had been after all some two miles. He nodded.

“My London doctor, Mr. Petts of Harley Street, suggested moderate exercise, bearing in mind I spend much time at home poring over my investments.”

I nodded, and looked expectantly at Sherlock.

“Who were the two victims of this 'vampire'?” he asked.

“The first was Molly Smith, a serving-girl at the Feathers”, our host said. “She had been taking a short-cut through the churchyard, and she described someone walking towards her who could have been me or several million other men. The man went past and then attacked her from behind, knocking her unconscious. The second was Jeb Watkins, the blacksmith. He is married to Mr. Willenden's cousin if I remember rightly, and very solidly built. Someone came up behind him when he was drunk one evening and knocked him out. Doctor Wollaston in the village said that there had been mild blood loss on each occasion.”

Sherlock nodded. There was a definite pause.

“Is there anything else, sir?” he asked.

“I do not think so”, Mr. de Klerk said.

“Then I am sorry to tell you that we shall not be taking your case.”

I stared at Sherlock in astonishment. 

“May I know why?” Mr. de Klerk asked stiffly.

“A consulting detective requires many things to do his job”, Sherlock said, “but first and foremost of those if the absolute honesty of his client. You have deliberately withheld an important piece of information from me, and I am quite aware of what it is. That is unacceptable.”

“Sir, I assure you.....” he began.

“You have five minutes to produce it”, Sherlock interrupted, taking out his pocket-watch. “After that time, the doctor and I will be taking the train back to London.”

The silence was palpable, but it was broken by a new voice from behind the screen.

“Always knew you were a sharp one, Sherlock.”

And out walked... Mr. Lucius Holmes! I stared at him in astonishment.

“How did you know?” he asked his younger brother curiously.

“The number of silken red-lined high-quality cloaks embossed with the letter 'L and two horns is, I suspect, rather low in this part of Sussex”, Sherlock said, smiling slightly. “And once I saw that, I recognized your cologne when we entered the room. If you will take a bath in it....”

“Hey!”

I was quietly pleased that, of all the Holmeses to appear, it was Lucius, especially given his help during the terrible times after I lost Sherlock in Lawrence. He was the only other brother that I liked, although there was of course also their sister Mrs. Thompson.

“Why are you here?” I asked. 

“Because he and Mr. de Klerk are related in some way”, Sherlock said coolly. “How, exactly?”

Mr. Lucius Holmes had walked over to where Mr. de Klerk was sat in his chair, and stood beside our host.

“Guy is Alfie's half-brother, from his mother's first marriage”, Lucius explained. “That counts as family, in my book. He did not tell you, because the locals would hate him even more if they found out, but by blood Guy is a Willenden. His great-grandmother went out to the Cape Colony, as it was then, during the Napoleonic Wars.”

He looked beseechingly at his brother.

“You could have just _asked_ ”, Sherlock said plaintively. His brother shrugged. 

“I did not wish you to take the case just because of family”, he said. 

“No pressure, then”, Sherlock grumbled, but I could see a smile beginning to form. “Of course I shall help. You only had to ask, Luke.”

“You know how much I hate doing that!” his brother grumbled. 

“Exactly!” Sherlock said brightly.

His brother scowled at him.

+~+~+

“You said that you purchased this property from Mr. Thomas Willenden”, Sherlock said over dinner. “Does he have any family?”

“He does indeed!” Mr. de Klerk said. Mr. Lucius Holmes had left to go back to London, after thanking his brother for his help, so there were just the three of us (and, unfortunately, the hearth monster) at dinner. “He has two brothers and a sister, a wife, four children of his own and six grand-children, plus a cart-load of nephews and nieces. The village is crawling with them!” 

“But Mr. Thomas is head of the family?” Sherlock asked, helping himself to potatoes.”

“Actually, no”, our host said. “That would be his mother, Mabel. Now that her son is no longer lord of the manor, she holds sway over her copious brood. Think Attila the Hun, but with a worse attitude.”

I gulped at that image. Sherlock seemed to be thinking of something. Some time passed before his next question.

“So we are looking for a vampire with restraint”, Sherlock smiled. “On another subject, did you inherit the serving staff from Mr. Willenden?” 

“Hardly any of them”, our host said. “Most quit when their master sold out to me. The only one who remained was Todman, the butler.”

“Why him?” I wondered. I always thought butlers were supposed to be amongst the most loyal of staff.”

“He had had a disagreement with Mr. Willenden over pay”, Mr. de Klerk said. “Fortunately I found it easy enough to bring in help from the other villages. Especially Godwinsford on the other side of the river, which has always had a rivalry with Dibley. No Willendens there!”

Sherlock smiled.

“I think that I may see a solution to your little problem, sir”, he said. “But you will need to do exactly as I say, and I do mean _exactly_.”

“I place myself in your capable hands”, he smiled.

+~+~+

Naturally Sherlock and I had been given separate rooms, albeit adjoining ones and right at the back of the house. I silently thanked Mr. Lucius Holmes for that. My friend came through the connecting door and sat on the bed, looking thoughtful. I moved to sit beside him.

“You did not ask our client if he was married”, I pointed out.

“Actually I did”, he said. “That was when the pie was served. Doubtless you were distracted somewhat.”

I ventured a pout at that.

“He is single, and seeing a young lady in Godwinsford”, Sherlock said. “Which in itself is another spur to solve the case; naturally her family would not sanction any alliance with a cloud of suspicion hanging over a prospective in-law.”

“So there may be blood Willingdens here again some day”, I mused. “The joys of children.”

We were both silent for a time, I thinking of my unacknowledged son Mr. Benjamin Warburton, and Sherlock doubtless of his own boy, dead before he had known of his short and sad existence. Not for the first or last time, I wondered.... 

“Such a thing would have been impossible”, he said with a sigh, showing his predictable if always disconcerting mind-reading abilities. “I knew that a long time ago.”

“When?” I asked, curious. He looked across at me.

“About twenty-seven years ago, when I came back to my college rooms and found a devilishly-handsome young student waiting for me”, he said, his blue eyes boring into mine. “I knew then. It was just a matter of time.”

I smiled.

“Of course, when I had you pinned to the floor....” he teased.

I scowled at him.

“But you waited twenty years before... you know”, I said.

“Before I waved my hand about in a peculiar manner?” smiled someone who ran the risk of not getting laid that night. I scowled at him.

“You know what I mean!” I said.

“I knew from the start that my talents would earn me all sorts of dangerous enemies”, he sighed. “The odds of me making old bones seemed so small as to be incalculable, so I had to hold off. Yet your righteousness and good nature worked past my poor defences, and I was so happy to exchange rings with you on that balcony in Verona. Society is not yet prepared to recognize what we are to each other, John, but we are as married as any couple. Always and forever.”

I kissed his neck, and began to work his shirt off of him. He sighed contentedly. I gently stood him up and removed his trousers and pants, then eased his socks off. He stood there before me in all his naked glory, and I silently thanked God for letting me have this, before he repeated the process with me, sliding my shirt off and running his hands all over my chest, making me shudder. He eased my trousers off, then my socks and underwear until I was as naked as he was. Then he took me and gently laid me down on the bed, before climbing in quietly beside me.

This was.... nice. No frantic love-making, no manic rush to orgasm, no haste at all. This was two men in their late forties (I had better remind myself of that, as I had now barely six months before That Birthday) holding each other, and gently worshipping each other's bodies. I could have grown a little nervous of how my body was ageing of late; that irritating bulge above my cock refused to quite disappear despite my frequent exercising, and I always felt rather plain in contrast to Sherlock, who remained as gloriously muscled as he had ever been. Yet the way he uttered quiet prayers of thanks when working his way all over me, and especially the way he tended to me when he knew I was feeling a little low, that made him truly magnificent. 

He eased himself on top of me, and began rubbing our bodies together, our cocks both growing rapidly erect with all the friction. I groaned with pleasure, and let him take me along for the ride. I do not know how long it was before he finally came, and I followed him just seconds later. He gently wiped us both down before snuggling in behind me, holding me tight. I fell asleep truly happy, wishing that this could last forever.

+~+~+

Sherlock surprised me the following morning by saying that he had to sort certain things out in London for a day or so, but he would return as soon as he could, and he instructed Mr. de Klerk not to leave the house for anything short of a major fire. Fortunately (for everyone) Sherlock was back after just one night away. He seemed pleased with whatever he had accomplished, but insisted that it was best if he told us nothing as yet. That evening passed quietly, and we went to bed to the sound of a late summer storm rolling across the downs.

It was during my friend's brief absence that an event occurred that would change my life, although being me, I did not realize it at the time. Mr. de Klerk had wanted to take some important papers to his lawyer in Polegate on the day of Sherlock's absence, so I offered to go in his stead, even though it involved a change of trains at Hastings. Then when I reached Polegate, I found that the lawyer was not at work that week. As Mr. de Klerk had insisted that I deliver the papers in person, I continued onto Acklington village where he lived and found the man easily enough.

Acklington has a small station on the line between Lewes and Eastbourne, but the service is infrequent. I could have taken a cab from the station the four miles or so back to Polegate, but it was a gloriously sunny day and the downs beckoned, so I decided to spend some time exploring the area. The stationmaster suggested that go to a nearby place called Casdene, as I might find it 'attractive'. Never would I end up being so glad to take someone's advice!

Casdene - I smiled at the name, which seemed most propitious - was a beautiful place; as its name suggested it was set in its own little dean, and I loved it on sight. Rather than walk straight back to the station, I decided to settle for a later train and to have lunch at the thatched pub - “The Majestic Duck” - and explore the area a little. 

After spending a little time in the Norman church on the edge of the village, I came out and was looking around to see where I could order a carriage when I chanced to look up. On the gently-rising hill to the north, a single cottage was slumbering in the afternoon sunshine, smoke rising lazily from its chimney. It was an idyllic picture, and I almost wished that I was possessed of the artistic talent to commit the scene to paper, so as to preserve it forever. I mentioned my experience to Sherlock on his return that evening, but otherwise thought nothing more of it. 

He, as I would later find out, evidently did.

+~+~+

The following day there was no sign of our host. I stumbled into breakfast to find Sherlock there already, sipping what had to have been his third coffee from his alertness. 

“Oh, Todman”, Sherlock said, when the butler brought in the morning mail, “your master said to tell you he will be away in London all day. He will return by the seven o'clock train, but he plans to walk back from Robertsbridge as usual. He said not to send the carriage, even if it rains.”

“I see, sir”, the butler said gravely. He looked about as depressed as our host's hearth monster, which was clearly miserable without its master around.

“Our host hopes to pull off a financial coup today”, Sherlock told me. “If it all works out, he may have to spend most of his time in London from now on. That will be all, Todman.”

I would not say that the butler was eavesdropping on our conversation, although he was certainly lingering. He headed reluctantly to the door.

“Oh, and Mr. de Klerk also said that he would like a copy of the local paper for this evening”, Sherlock called after him, making him jump. “Is anyone in the house going to the village today? If not, the doctor or I can walk down?”

“I can make sure that someone fetches one, sir”, the butler said, and left. 

Sherlock smiled knowingly. 

+~+~+

The hot weather built up again during the day, and that night the storm broke anew. As seven o'clock approached, Todman brought us drinks and asked if we wanted a carriage sent for Mr. de Klerk anyway, but Sherlock demurred, saying we must respect the gentleman's wishes, and that water never hurt anyone. I supposed that he was right in that. 

Just after nine o'clock, there was a loud banging at the front door. A footman went to answer it, and shortly after he brought in with two people, a large and angry-looking elderly lady and a somewhat bedraggled village constable. Although I assume that they must have taken a carriage from the village, they had both still got soused in the short distance to the front door. Sherlock ushered the constable over to the fire and insisted that he remove his wet outer garments before starting.

“This lady is Mrs. Mabel Willenden”, he began, “and I am Police Constable Hornblower. Mrs. Willenden's grand-daughter Mary was attacked tonight, and all the signs are that it was the same person as committed the last two attacks. I am sorry to ask this, gentlemen, but do either of you know the whereabouts of Mr. de Klerk?”

“Of course”, Sherlock smiled. I stared at him in surprise. 

“You do?” the constable said, clearly take aback. 

“I should”, Sherlock said. “I sent him there.”

“Where?”

Sherlock looked at his pocket-watch.

“He is probably still at the station”, he said.

“Wait a minute”, the sergeant said, now clearly as confused as I was. “I was told that he was due back by the seven o'clock train.”

“Who by?” Sherlock asked.

“Pardon?”

“Who told you?” Sherlock asked patiently.

“This is a village, sir”, the constable said patiently. “Everyone knows everyone else's business. That's just the way it is round here.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “So if you know 'everyone else's business', then you could head over to the station and collect Mr. de Klerk?”

The sergeant looked at him warily, then at me. Something finally twigged.

“Ye Gods, you're Doctor Watson!” he said, aghast. “That means you must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes! The detective!”

“Rupert!” the woman barked. “The attack!”

The constable collected himself with an effort. 

“Yes, of course”, he said. “Must be headed over to the station to pick up Mr. de Klerk. I will bring him back here.”

“You would be in for a long wait, constable”, Sherlock said airily.

“What?”

“At this precise moment in time, the 'station' that our host is at is in fact a police station in central London”, Sherlock said. “It is run by our good friend, Inspector Baldur. I sent Mr. de Klerk there this morning.”

Both our visitors stared at him in confusion.

“Why?” the constable asked. 

“Because I wished him to have an unimpeachable alibi for the next attack, which I knew would happen tonight”, Sherlock said. “And being locked in a police cell all afternoon and evening is, I think you would agree, a rather good alibi.”

The constable sat down heavily in a chair. I poured him a stiff drink, and was not surprised when he downed it on one shot. I needed one myself. 

“You _knew_ that there would be an attack tonight?” he asked.

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “In a way, I encouraged it.”

The constable looked like he needed a refill, but I served myself first. For medicinal reasons.

“I reasoned that the most likely person behind the attacks would be someone who resented the newcomer in the village”, Sherlock said. He looked hard at the lady standing by the doorway. “And who better than the matron of the family disinherited by them?”

“I hope you can prove that, _sirrah_ ”, she said acidly.

“I am sure that your grand-daughter would not object to an examination by the doctor here”, he said smoothly. “Not the village doctor, who like many in the place is 'in your pocket', but by my independent-minded friend. He will find that the vampiric puncture wounds are fake, and that there has been no blood loss at all.”

“I will not allow her to be subjected to that!” the woman shouted.

The constable stood up.

“Mabel”, he said slowly, “what have you gone and done?”

“Fallen into a trap”, Sherlock said. “I made sure that the butler, her agent who chose to remain inside the house, knew not only of his master's absence, but that this might be the last one for some time, thus prompting an attack tonight. Doubtless had you had more time, you would have found someone less directly connected with you, but you only had hours before what you thought to be your adversary's return for the last time in months. Mr. de Klerk will leave the cells at ten o'clock precisely to spend the night in a most commodious hotel in London, courtesy of my brother Gaylord, and will return here tomorrow morning.”

She moved towards him, but I moved quicker, standing in her way and baring my teeth at her. I thought for one moment she might try to strike me, but she hissed a quite inventive obscenity and turned on her heel, leaving the room in a flurry of crinoline 

“There will be no prosecution”, the constable said dourly. “She may not have driven him out, but she has pretty much gotten away with it!”

“I am not so sure about that” Sherlock smiled. “Once our host is returned, we shall spend a few days here before returning to London. I think the non-Willingden residents of Dibley, and particularly the villagers of Godwinsford across the valley, would welcome some gossip in their daily lives!”

“We are spending some time here?” I asked.

“Of course”, he said. “And perhaps we can make one or two more trips to the Downs whilst we are here.”

Lord, I loved him so much!

+~+~+

In our next adventure together, there is an attempted murder - so Sherlock helps out by providing a body!!


End file.
